“Get out,” Runa hissed as she seized Olvir’s arm.
The Norseman gazed at her. “Be quiet, woman. What right do you have to order me about?” He jerked free of her grasp. “This world must change. Otherwise, we will all burn for our sins.” He looked her over, disgust on his face. “Especially a wanton girl like you.”
Refusing to be insulted, Runa unsheathed the knife she kept at her hip. She held it close to his face, unafraid. “Care to curse me again?”
He chuckled, but didn’t make a move to strip the weapon from her hand. The people standing nearby were watching and listening closely.
“I speak only truth.”
“Do you?” Runa challenged. “Falsehoods you picked up in a foreign land. Belief in a weak God. Take your stories and go tell them to the wild pigs.” Runa shoved him in the direction of the doors. “Do not come back here, Olvir.” Her hand started shaking. It surprised her how desperately she wanted to use the knife, to stab him in the throat and silence him forever.
Before she could do anything, someone quickly disarmed her from behind.
She spun around, finding Thorolf, Roald’s newest captain. “Be still, Runa. Let me take care of this fool.”
Unable to resist staring at the handsome warrior, she often wondered why he didn’t have a wife and a dozen children. Thorolf resembled the men from ancient times, his wolf fur cloak worn as a symbol of his accomplishments as a Berserker, his chiseled features and golden hair a complete distraction.
“Aye,” she said obediently, lowering her offending hand. “Do with him as you please.”
She watched with fascination as he grabbed a fistful of Olvir’s collar and forcibly ushered him outside. There was no doubt in her mind why Roald had promoted Thorolf to such a coveted position in his personal guard. He had proven himself invaluable to her family. And now that she thought about it more, he always seemed to appear at the right time.
Good instincts? Or did Odin work through him?
“Now that the troublemaker has been extricated from the celebration, may I suggest we drink and eat, honoring the arrival of my children?” Roald raised his cup. “Skål,” he offered a traditional toast.
A woman shoved a cup of mead into Runa’s hands. “To your family’s health and success.”
Runa emptied the vessel in one swallow, irritated with herself. The best way for a girl who wanted to serve as a temple maiden to forget a man she was hopelessly attracted to was to indulge in as much mead as she could drink, then lock herself in her chamber where she could sleep.
Chapter Two
Thorolf released Olvir once they walked beyond the courtyard where no one could overhear them. “Consider yourself fortunate.” He eyed the dissenter, knowing trouble would follow him wherever he went. “Unlike Runa, I will not hesitate to punish you if I see you here again.”
Olvir straightened his cloak. “I am helpless against the mandates of my new faith. I must share the message of my new God with everyone I meet. What harm is there in giving free men a chance to choose between Odin and the Christ?”
Roald didn’t seem to be the kind of man who’d forgive a captain for mishandling a situation. Especially with a Norseman who had abandoned Allfather. “What you do in your own time is not my concern. But when you are standing on Jarl Roald’s lands, you will observe the same rules I do. Keep your radical ideas to yourself. Now, go.” Thorolf waved him off.
“You would send me away in the middle of the night without my horse?”
Thorolf sighed. “Payment for your disrespect.”
“I am not a man without resources…”
“What are you saying?”
“A small measure of kindness now would be repaid threefold someday.”
Thorolf did not like what Olvir was implying. “Are you attempting to bribe me? To win my favor?”
He shrugged. “I am requesting mercy. Tis a bitter night and I have a long walk home.”
“Something you should have remembered before you opened your bloody mouth inside the great hall or insulted Lady Runa.”
The man clicked his tongue. “If she passes for a lady anymore.”
Thorolf didn’t think, he simply acted—pinching Olvir’s throat between his thumb and fingers. “What quarrel do you have with the lady?”
“It’s a private matter.”
“Nay.” Thorolf squeezed his neck tighter, knowing it would snap easily if he applied just the right amount of pressure. “Tell me or I’ll deprive you of air altogether.”
Olvir struggled to swallow. “I’ve known her since our childhood.”
“And this is why you treat her with such disdain?”
“No. Before my sire sent me to Northumbria to train as a soldier, she promised to wait for me.”
Thorolf didn’t understand. “Wait for you? Instead of your mount, perhaps I should claim your tongue.” He released Olvir and reached for Runa’s knife tucked in his weapon belt. “Then no one would suffer from your incessant babble again.”
“I wished to marry her,” the smaller man clarified. “Though she never gave her outright consent, she agreed to consider our union.”
“As you’ve already said. There is no ring upon her finger. And to my knowledge, Jarl Roald is the one you must gain permission from. He is her guardian now. When did you return from Northumbria?”
“Eight days ago.”
Thorolf assessed the man more closely, noting his expensive clothes. Not the garments of a hardened warrior. “Did you succeed in becoming a soldier? How many battles did you fight in? How many men have you killed?”
“None.”
Thorolf grinned. He knew the answer before Olvir spoke. But he credited the man for being honest. “So you failed as a footman? What good were you to Danes if you cannot wield a sword?” He also guessed the man couldn’t wield his pikk, for what woman would fuck a half-man with soft hands?
Olvir leered at him and tapped his temple with his fingertip. “I adjusted to my surroundings. When Prince Ivarr learned of my quick wit and ability with numbers, he hired me as a scribe.”
“A lap dog,” Thorolf muttered, loud enough for Olvir to hear him.
“On the contrary,” Olvir said with confidence. “Physical strength might win the fight, Thorolf, but a keen mind keeps the war financed.”
“I care little about what’s behind the battlefield.” Thorolf stepped closer. “But I know Jarl Roald would never accept you as a husband for his only sister. And I never gave you permission to use my name.”
“I didn’t realize I needed it.” Olvir stood his ground.
“Go, before I change my mind about what to do with you.”
“I want my horse.”
Thorolf sighed in frustration. The man was as persistent as a fly. “Leave. Now.” He poked Olvir in the chest for emphasis.
“I will be back. My claim on Runa holds merit.”
Anger swirled just below the surface then, for Thorolf deeply admired Lady Runa. More than that, the idea of this inferior creature touching her, even dreaming about her, made his stomach turn. “There will be no further contact between the two of you.”
Olvir chuckled. “You are a soldier, not a member of the family. When it comes to deciding…”
Thorolf didn’t need the finer things in life … didn’t care a fig for speaking as eloquently as a skald or priming his mind to be a scholar. He knew one thing and head-butted the nag, knocking him on his arse. “Argr.” He waited for Olvir to stop writhing in pain before finishing his thought. “Stand up like a man.” He’d not give him another chance to leave on his own accord.
Olvir staggered to his feet, his forehead wet with blood. “What did you call me?” He sucked in his cheeks.
“Did I stutter? Argr. You are every bit unmanned—womanish.”
No insult cut deeper.
“I challenge you,” Olvir said, his scowl as humorous as his fighting stance.
“And what will you defend yourself with?” No weapon hung at his hip. “
A bone used to carve your words?” He laughed violently. “I am tasked with protecting the jarl’s family. And as long as I draw air, you won’t set foot on these lands again.”
Thorolf shoved him down the footpath. Olvir nearly lost his balance, but Thorolf didn’t care. He did it again and again until they’d gone some distance from the longhouse. The full winter moon shined overhead, casting the world in silver light. He stopped abruptly then, memorizing Olvir’s features.
“The next time you expect a girl of fifteen seasons to keep her word about waiting for you, perhaps you should consider speaking with her father or guardian first. A man wouldn’t hold a child to such a severe promise.”
Olvir spat on the ground. “She’s no longer a child.”
“Aye,” Thorolf agreed. It pained him to envision her—so beautiful and strong willed—perfect in every way. “And after her reaction tonight, I think you have your answer.”
Done wasting his time, Thorolf turned his back on Olvir, ready to return to the celebration and get drunk.
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Vienna Waltz
Excerpt
The Imperial Season
Book One
Mary Lancaster
Chapter One
This was the man she needed.
He stole blatantly, yet with such speed and composure that Lizzie almost missed it. In fact, she wasted nearly four precious seconds before the realization hit her.
In mitigation of her uncharacteristic slowness, she had many distractions in Vienna’s gorgeous Theatre an der Wien. Quite aside from the pretty ballet on the stage and the exquisite music that went with it, the theatre’s sumptuous blue and silver furnishings were a feast for the eyes in their own right, as were the beautiful pastel gowns, glittering jewels and dazzling, gold-braided uniforms of many in the audience.
Lizzie had only arrived in Vienna with her siblings, aunt, uncle and cousins the day before. Despite exhaustion after the arduous journey, she was enchanted by everything from the historic and picturesque narrow streets of the inner city, to the sophisticated fashions of the European elite who still flooded into Vienna for the peace conference. She was quite happy to sit behind her family in their private box, so kindly donated for the evening by the British Ambassador, Sir Charles Stewart, and observe the wonders, leaving her cousin Minerva to display her charms at the front beside her mother and brother.
It crossed Lizzie’s mind occasionally that she might actually be embarrassed to be seen in her old, ridiculously unfashionable dress. Not that she cared for clothes and primping and displays of jewelry—really, she didn’t—but she had no wish to be ridiculed. Besides which, she had plans to make. So she sat back in her seat, letting the music surround her, and divided her attention between those plans, the stage dancers and the audience.
The theatre was packed and rather stuffy in the unseasonably warm October evening. Young men propped up pillars and doorways in the pit, many making eyes at the dancers on stage or the pretty young women seated close by. Some aimed higher, at the wealthier ladies in the tiers of boxes surrounding the stage. Lizzie thought Minerva drew a little attention of her own, which would gratify Aunt Lucy.
Of course, Lizzie’s sister, Henrietta, even at her present tender age of fifteen, would have eclipsed Minerva and all other females present, too. But there was no point in brooding over ill fortune that none of them could do anything about now. If the old gentleman had only followed everyone else’s advice about that wretched horse that had thrown and eventually killed him…but she refused to dwell on that. She and her siblings might have lost their father and their home, but Lizzie hadn’t lost her wits and she was determined to win another home so that her sister—all of her siblings, in fact—could choose their paths from a position of at least minimal comfort.
More than once since they’d sat down, Lizzie’s attention had been caught by the lady in the next box. A young matron, fashionably dressed in white with dramatic splashes of scarlet trim, she was one of the loveliest women Lizzie had ever seen. Not surprisingly, male companions surrounded her and she was being openly quizzed by several gentlemen in the pit as well as more discreetly by Cousin James. Lizzie wondered who she was; although when James mumbled an excuse and bolted from their box—presumably to fight his way into the beauty’s instead—she rather thought she’d find out in more detail than she’d ever need.
It was as she waited expectantly for James’ lanky figure to appear next to the unknown lady that the robbery occurred.
The music, at that moment, was particularly rousing, distracting Lizzie just as a very un-James-like man pushed unceremoniously through the throng in the beauty’s box. She had an impression of someone large and dark and improperly dressed in no more than mud-stained shirt and breeches.
Then, before Lizzie, or anyone else by the look of things, had even registered his surely alarming presence, he went right up to the lady, grasped the delicate chain of the necklace around her pretty throat and tugged.
For the smallest instant, the lady gazed up at the thief, wide-eyed with shock. His lips moved, speaking only one syllable, but already he was turning away, incongruously casual. And the next moment, he’d vanished, leaving the lady gasping and clutching her suddenly bare neck.
Lizzie blinked. Did I really see that?
A few startled exclamations in German from the surrounding boxes convinced her she had.
And then the truth crashed into her. This was an opportunity that would never come again. And she was letting him get away.
Without so much as a glance at Aunt Lucy or Minerva, Lizzie sprang up and left the box. A flash of grubby white disappeared around the corner of the corridor. Lizzie flew after it. As she passed the victim’s box, she heard a female voice say in French, “Oh, ignore it. I have another just like it. Besides, the police will catch him.”
How wonderful to be so blasé! Lizzie thought as she raced past a few lounging men, one or two of whom may have tried to speak to her. Too focused on her quarry to pay them any attention whatsoever, Lizzie gained the staircase in time to see the thief running down the last few steps to the bottom. Bizarrely, he didn’t even look like a fugitive, just a man in a hurry. In fact, he was whistling as he crossed the grand foyer, as if mightily pleased with himself. He even called something in a friendly voice to the doorman as he strode out.
However, by the time Lizzie reached the foot of the staircase, the hue and cry had gone up from the top. One of the victim’s numerous male escorts was shouting the German equivalent of “Stop thief!”
Inevitably, a gaggle of staff began to close in on Lizzie.
Oh, drat the fools, how will I catch him now?
Fortunately, the same German voice fumed, “Not her, you idiots! The man with no coat! After him!”
At least Lizzie imagined that’s what he said, for the approaching staff suddenly sprang in the opposite direction, like deer started by a shot. Lizzie was able to escape close on their heels, even to slip by them as they stopped outside the doors and asked each other questions about who they were looking for, what he’d stolen, and from whom.
Spying a shadow vanishing around the corner of the theatre building, Lizzie hurried after it. She knew she was running out of time. Everyone said Vienna was full of police and police spies, and she couldn’t imagine any of them taking the blatant theft of a lady’s necklace very lightly. And sure enough, voices and footsteps were converging from all directions. Lizzie clutched her flimsy shawl more tightly around her shoulders, walking as fast as she dared along a street full of abandoned carriages belonging to the theatre patrons. A few coachmen were gossiping and smoking together; others must have sloped off to the nearest tavern. She wondered if their own Viennese coachman, Wilhelm, was among them, but was too occupied to look.
She glimpsed the thief still some yards ahead of her, striding down the road, hands in pockets. She even heard the whistling blown back to her on the wind. But the foot
steps behind were growing quicker and louder. One of the pursuers said in English, “He definitely went this way.” So far their quarry seemed to be hidden from them by the distance, and the shadows, and, perhaps, by Lizzie herself.
The thief glanced over his shoulder. He must have at least heard if not seen his pursuers, for she thought he laughed, although the sound could have come from one of the nearby coachmen. However, he was clearly a thinking thief, for he didn’t immediately bolt and draw attention to himself. Instead, he seemed to look about him as he walked. Then he paused, gazing at the crest on a waiting carriage. Lizzie hurried on. With a jolt of excitement, she realized the carriage was her aunt’s.
The man walked on, but at least his brief halt had given her time to catch up.
“Wait,” Lizzie hissed.
He turned and the glow from the nearby street lamp showed her black brows raised in surprise on a lean, handsome face. Although unexpectedly young, he gave off an air of recklessness and sheer danger that caught at Lizzie’s quickened breath. His hair looked wild and unkempt and his rather hard eyes glittered in a way she recognized.
No one was perfect.
She grasped the handle of the carriage door and yanked it open. “Get in.”
At that, a hint of confusion crossed his face, making him seem more boyish than dangerous. Which was some comfort, before a whole array of much more worrying expressions chased after it. She was fairly sure one of them was pure lechery and began to frown furiously to quash any such nonsense. Only then, his gaze shifted beyond her to the approaching police and their helpers. So far, the obstructive gaggles of coachmen and her own carriage door must have hidden him, for she could hear questions being fired at the servants farther back.
The thief drew in a breath that sounded suspiciously like laughter, strode the few paces toward her and leapt nimbly inside. Lizzie followed, closed the door behind her and sat on the other bench. It wasn’t the most comfortable carriage in the world, but it had carried her across Europe already, so at least it gave her familiarity to hang on to.
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